


and it's something without warning, love

by simonewrites



Series: Unusual Suspects [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (just in general), Avoiding Feelings, Bipolar Disorder, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Depression, F/M, Hypersexuality, Massage, Reader has a vagina, a lot of intrusive sexual thoughts bc that's a Thing, bipolar!reader, female-identified reader, mention of masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonewrites/pseuds/simonewrites
Summary: Someone with a job in the Avengers' Tower and a master's degree in Biomedical Informatics probably has it together, right?...You would, and you do normally, except for the bipolar disorder which turns your life on its head whenever it feels like it. As hard as you try to hide it from everyone else in the Tower, Bucky Barnes sees right through you.





	1. are all the good times getting gone? (hypomania)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. So, guess who's back? It's me! 
> 
> This work is deeply personal for me. It's supposed to be accurate, but I'm one person with BP2, so your mileage may vary. I hope that this hasn't crossed over into the kind of writing about crazy that's unrelatable. 
> 
> Shoutout to everyone who left kudos and comments on my other fic <3 Y'all rock. Once I get this fic out of my system, I'll have a sequel or something related to Flirt! 
> 
> The title comes from the Bill Withers song "Lovely Day," but I lowkey was inspired by that AmFam commercial with Alex Guthrie. Sue me.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

The waiting room outside of Dr. Strohmeyer’s office is rather austere, much unlike the woman herself. She is always decked out in funky colors or interesting prints, all of which mirror her exuberance. Never once would she let her own personality compromise a session, though. You’d chosen her as your psychiatrist on a whim when you arrived in New York nearly three years ago, because you figured with this new move and new environment _maybe_ you should have someone check you out. Being suicidal and not leaving the house for three weeks except on the days you had to work because you physically could not get out of bed, then redecorating and cleaning your entire house for about twenty-four hours straight after that wasn’t exactly normal for a twenty-two-year-old who was _supposed_ to be entering grad school in August. (That had been postponed for a year while you got your head on straight.) So you’d gone, and she’d quickly been able to live up to her reputation as the “best psychiatrist in New York.” After your initial appointment and making some calls to your family and friends back home, she deduced over the span of a few more appointments that you had bipolar disorder. With that diagnosis came new medication, and with the new medication came a new responsibility and a few side effects. You’d take the side effects over the mental instability in a heartbeat, though.

Now you’ve been with her for so long that she feels like family, and it’s a pleasure to see her every two months for a med check and general mental health assessment. Things have been going fairly well for the past four or so months: you’ve recently nabbed a job as a biomedical tech specialist in the Avengers’ Tower, which means that you have a new home there, you finally have your master’s degree in biomedical informatics from NYU (graduated magna cum laude, who would have thought?), and you’ve been feeling stable enough to dip a toe back into the dating pool. The idea of a checkup is feeling a little silly, since you’re doing so well.

You examine the room further, starting to the left, where the door is. _Judge Judy_ is playing on the flatscreen mounted to the wall opposite the door, and the oval coffee table in front of you is covered in magazines. You’ve got your dogeared copy of _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ in your lap, and you’re on your fifth reread, though the volume of thoughts occupying your brain make it difficult to concentrate on much other than _what would happen if I ripped that magazine in half? No, bad idea, but I can jiggle my leg though._ Then, you look over to the right of the room. The check-in window is currently being blocked by a gigantic man.

...No, seriously. The dude has to be around 6’3” and he is _buff._ His shoulder-to-waist ratio makes him look like a goddamn Dorito, much like your fellow Tower resident, Steve Rogers, has been immortalized as having on Tumblr. He has messy, grown-out dark hair that falls just below his chin in barely-there waves and he’s wearing a hoodie and gloves in the middle of August. _What the hell?_ You think, before gently chastising yourself for your judgmental thoughts. _I’m in a psychiatrist’s office, and so is he. We’re both here to get help, presumably._

He turns around, and that’s when it hits you.

He’s Bucky _fucking_ Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, Captain America’s best friend and a fellow resident of the Tower. You’re currently working on an improvement to his metal arm, and if it works out, maybe a lighter, more realistic replacement can be conceived and implemented. You’d literally breathed his air yesterday, and now he’s waiting to see the same damn psychiatrist you were. _God_ , he’s sinful in every way, shape, and form, and your traitorous mind immediately flashes back to yesterday, when you'd had him shirtless while you examined him and ran him through a few scanners. You shake your head, as if to physically clear the thoughts from your mind, and continue to look at him.

There’s a hint of recognition in his expression, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he settles two chairs down from you and picks up an issue of _Better Homes and Gardens._ Your stomach turns as you fret over whether or not it would be weird to say hello. Your traitorous brain decides that it’s a wonderful idea to imagine him naked, and _that_ is simultaneously welcome and unwelcome. _But should I say hello? Even though I'm currently thinking about him naked?_ you ask yourself, bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

“(Y/N), I’m ready for you, if you’d like to come on back.” Dr. Strohmeyer chirps, peering around the door at you, saving you from the indecision of whether or not you should greet Bucky, and incidentally, interrupting your nasty thoughts involving the super-soldier to your left. Her curly, slightly-frizzy dark brown hair is piled on top of her head in a bun, and her huge square-framed glasses are purple-green-blue tie-dye today, which match her formerly-white silk blouse. She's paired those show-stoppers with dark jeans and black ballet flats, which makes them seem less intimidating.

“Yes, ma’am. Lemme grab my purse.” You reply, sliding the strap of your bag over your shoulder and closing your book around the coupon for frozen vegetables that you’ve been using as a bookmark lately.

Dr. Strohmeyer leads you into her office, where she asks you all her normal assessment questions. You respond honestly, telling her about the sheer volume of thoughts you’re having, and that an unprecedented number of them are sexual. She seems confident that you’re feeling hypomanic, and asks you to go pick up some new antipsychotics at the pharmacy, since they _should_ help keep you from going too wild. You agree. She then asks a few more questions about how your life has been since the last time you'd seen her, which was about four months ago, since you'd had to cancel your last appointment due to a nasty stomach virus and just never got around to rescheduling. When she hears about your new job and new digs, she actually squeals in delight.

“That's amazing!” She says, grinning. “You've worked so hard to get to this point and I'm so proud of you.”

Eventually, it’s around time for you to leave, since the allotted time for your appointment has passed. Dr. Strohmeyer writes you a few prescriptions and informs you of the antipsychotic’s possible side effects. You agree to call her if anything strange happens. Just before you leave, though, you whisper, “Is that Bucky Barnes? Like, is he a patient of yours?”

“I shouldn't be telling you this, but yes. Well, I mean, I was gonna call his name in front of anyone in the waiting room. I guess it isn't that big a deal.” Then, she pauses. “You two live in the same building, right?”

“Yup. I’m a floor above him. Worked on his arm yesterday.”

“ _That’s right,_ you work in the lab as the biomedical tech specialist. God, how did I not put two and two together?”

“ _I_ didn't recognize him until he turned around and I saw his face. I think he recognizes me, but he doesn't know where from.”

“I can see that being the case.” She purses her lips, as if she's in deep thought, then says, “Go on now, it's his turn. Maybe try to talk to him the next time you see him?”

“Can do.”

You wave goodbye and take one last look at Bucky, who is following Dr. Strohmeyer towards her office. _He's so pretty. No man has the right to be that pretty._ The thought, true as it may be, is unwelcome, and you mentally crumple it up and throw it away, for what feels like the hundredth time today. He’s– you pause your other avenues of thought to think about it as you descend the stairs and walk about a block to the subway station. You aren't a doctor, so he isn't quite your patient, but he is someone you're supposed to be helping and looking after, not someone you should have unprofessional thoughts toward. Of course, it's hard not to have unprofessional thoughts toward a man like that, especially considering that you're smack-dab in the middle of a hypomanic episode, and because of that, you're feeling extra frisky.

As tempted as you are to hit up Tinder for some gratification, somewhere, deep down below the whitewater rapids that are your current thoughts, you know it's unwise to do anything with a stranger when you're having an episode. _Anything_ can happen, and that’s bad for someone who lives in the Avengers’ Tower and has access to a lot of potentially-deadly substances and objects. So you sit in your seat on the train and clench your thighs together, cursing your lust-addled brain for suddenly resurrecting your Bucky Barnes fantasies from the mental wastebasket where you'd left them. You just _know_ you'll see him again today, and with your luck, it'll be before your episode fizzles out. _Thank God it’s a long way to the Tower,_ you manage to think, in between the other things in your head.

———

You can feel a slight shift in your energy by the time you arrive back at the Tower and change into your casual clothes. It feels kind of like you’re transitioning from the 'great ideas’ type of hypomania to the 'I’m pissed at everyone in my general vicinity’ hypomania, and the second one is the kind you hate. In the small pharmacy area of the medical lab, you meet with the medical assistant, who takes one look at you, with the mussed prescription for antipsychotics in your hand, and asks, “Do you need a ‘scrip filled?”

“Yes please. This episode is _killing_ me. It was fun when I was in the lab having great ideas, but now I want to unwind and, I dunno, not feel like there are a thousand bees inside my skull.” You sigh, using the thumb of one hand to massage your temple and extending your other hand out with the prescription within easy reach of the man in front of you.

He regards you sympathetically and plucks the paper from your outstretched fingertips. Once he's read it, he sticks it in a file folder marked with your name and then types for a moment at the computer on the reception desk.

“Okay, this is…” he trails off, turning to look at the tall cabinets full of medications, “in drawer A-7. Lemme just toss some in a bottle for you and you'll be good to go. Need any others refilled?”

“Maybe in a few days, but not currently.” You watch him pour pills into a standard orange bottle, then cap it, print a label, and grab a pamphlet explaining the functions and possible side effects of the medication.

“Here you go! Hope this does okay for you. If anything feels wrong–”

You cut him off, “–go to the med lab, I'm aware. Thanks, man. Take care.”

You know you’re being short, and you hate it. It just _leaks_ out when you’re like this, all prickles and unpleasantness. It isn’t fair to anyone else that they should have to deal with you, and you know it, so you decide to retire to your room until the medication takes effect.

As you’re waiting for the elevator, you allow yourself a moment with your eyes closed, to try and calm down, in case anyone else happens to be in the cab with you on the way up. However, every second that you let your eyes stay shut, your naughty thoughts about Bucky come to life again, this time playing across the back of your eyelids as if they’re an IMAX screen and you’ve reserved a private showing of _Sex With A Super-Soldier: Vol. 1._ You can feel your face flushing hot, and you smack the back of your hand with the other, trying desperately to distract yourself from those images. Embarrassingly, you can feel your panties beginning to dampen, which is the _last_ thing that you need right now. 

The elevator arrives, and you step into it without really looking at who’s inside. Once you’ve mashed the correct button for your floor, you retreat into a corner and take a deep breath. Then, a throat clears, and you raise your eyes from your feet to see-- _mother_ **_fucker,_ ** _nobody has the right to look that good._ None other than Bucky _fucking_ Barnes, of course, is occupying the corner of the elevator across from you. You supposed that it _had_ been long enough for him to have his appointment and get back, but it was just so goddamn inopportune that you could cry.

“So, you see Dr. Strohmeyer, too?” He asks, clearly trying to make conversation with you.

You decide to take the bait, considering how much he keeps to himself. “Yeah, I have for the last three years. I moved here and decided to see her because her name was the most interesting in the phone book.”

Bucky chuckles, “That’s a strange way to pick a doctor, doll, but I guess it worked out.”  

Your knees very nearly give out when he calls you “doll.” Normally, you could handle it, and might even chide him gently for using that nickname on you, but with the amount of lust you’re harboring for him, it’s like an aphrodisiac. You can feel your flush spreading all over your face, down your neck, and into your chest.

“Y-yeah, she’s a great doctor. I couldn’t have done better, honestly.” You stammer, leaning heavily against the wall of the elevator because you don’t trust your knees to support you while he’s in here.

“Stark says he sends everyone he knows that needs psychiatric care her way. She’s nice.”

 _Why is it such a long way up?_ you whine internally, wishing that his floor would get here already. By now, it feels almost like you can smell him, and that’s the _last_ thing you need right now.

Just then, the elevator lurches to a stop, and you open your eyes, which you’d screwed shut in order to stop yourself from staring a hole into Bucky’s pretty face. He’s making his way to the doors. As they open, he leaves with a little wave, and you manage to smile at him, though it feels like you’re melting from the flush all over your body. The elevator doors shut again, and it takes seconds for it to arrive at your floor.

You bolt out of the elevator and don’t stop for anything on your way to your room, not even to answer a colleague’s greeting. As soon as you’ve scanned your keycard, the door slides open, and you immediately strip down to your panties, just to get some air on your skin.

A cool, detached voice interrupts you from reveling in the chill.

“Specialist Y/N, Agent Barnes requested that I check on you. Are you alright?” FRIDAY asks, and you groan out loud. _Of_ **_course_ ** _he’d want to check on me. Kind bastard._

“Tell Bucky that I’m fine, just feeling a little under the weather. I’ll see him in the lab the day after tomorrow.”

“Very well. Do you need anything?”

“Make it so that nobody disturbs me tonight unless someone is literally dying or there’s some kind of disaster. And could you please get someone to deliver me some Chinese food?” You sigh, lying facedown and spreadeagled on your bed, letting the flush disappear from your skin.

“Yes. Your usual order? And would you like me to notify you when it has arrived?”

"Yes, please. You’re the best.”

“The praise is appreciated, Specialist. I will let you know when your food arrives.”

“Thank you, FRIDAY.” You think for a moment, then, realizing what you’re most likely going to do before (and after) dinner, you say, “Don’t record my statistics tonight, please. I have a feeling they’ll be out of the ordinary.”

“Understood.”

Then, you’re alone with your thoughts, and you’re almost glad for it. At least you’re home, where it’s appropriate to get yourself off, even if it isn’t necessarily the most ethical to think about your almost-patient.

———

You tire yourself out in time for dinner, which is when you take your antipsychotic, along with the evening dose of one of your other medications. It takes effect within half an hour, and it’s heavenly to be able to think clearly again. You’re also a little bit sleepy, but you aren’t sure if that’s the stress of a hypomanic day, the medication, or the multiple orgasms talking. You put your leftovers in the mini-fridge across from your bed and drift off to sleep, thankfully free of thoughts about Bucky Barnes.


	2. i'm not gonna crack (euthymia/baseline)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader's mood has come back down to normal, and she seems to have made an impression on our favorite super-soldier. Plus, good news from the higher-ups regarding an important project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly could have posted this, like, yesterday (I think? My sleep schedule is so fucked right now, I'm having trouble keeping track of time!), but I'm just now getting around to it. So, anyways, the chapter. It's shorter than every other one that will be posted, because euthymia is........ normal. It's normal life, the way you feel just existing, when nothing's horrifically bad and nothing's mind-shatteringly good. I'm trying to get it together for the next chapter, which is the lovely mixed episode (or mixed affective state, if you prefer to be stuffy about it). Two separate sex scenes in that one! TWO! And if you think that Reader cycles fast, keep in mind that I'm writing as someone who can swing within hours (and sometimes within the span of an hour. It's awful.) 
> 
> Anyways, I didn't mean to regale all of you with talk of The Disorder™. I think you'll like the mixed episode chapter, it's got the nasty stuff y'all came for.
> 
> EDIT 7/12/17: I completely forgot to add that all my talk about the metal arm and its effects on Bucky's body comes from [here.](http://stele3.tumblr.com/post/99613472580/the-body-of-bucky-barnes-a-massage-therapists) That blog has several excellent posts about the disability he would most likely have due to the arm.

Tony Stark, your boss (God, you still can't believe it), has requested that you lead a team of people to construct a new prosthetic for Bucky, since you're trained in biomedical sciences. (That bomb was dropped on you by the man himself, mere moments after you walked in, fresh from a deep post-hypomania slumber.) You don't feel qualified for it, not exactly, since you're so new and so inexperienced, but you want to make a difference in Bucky's life. Anybody who's had to deal with that much bullshit deserves a nice prosthetic that doesn't cause them pain. 

You have to be honest; Bucky never complains about any pain the arm might give him, but you’ve seen both his scans and the way he's constantly moving his upper body around, and you know that it doesn't feel good. The weight on his left side has caused him to have to compensate in the way he stands, walks, sleeps, holds things, and moves his body in general. That means he has a pretty wicked case of thoracic scoliosis. He compensates for it, obviously, so he's functional, but all his muscles are locked up, and that combined with the numerous adhesions on his tendons, ligaments, muscles, and the metal and mesh reinforcements means that everything is very precarious. One injury, one wrong move, and he could be permanently disabled. The serum can only do so much, and you know it.

You'd prefer if Bucky didn't know about the stakes involved in designing his new arm. No need to add that to his plate, considering the other things he has to worry about. Your job is to make sure it gets made on time, and to contact the Avengers’ trainer to make sure she's aware of the situation.

———

Bucky strolls into the lab a few mornings after your appointment, seemingly in a good mood, which is a rare occurrence, but it certainly isn't unwelcome. You’re far from hypomanic now, thank God; the even keel you tend to find yourself on is back. You realize, suddenly, that he isn't scheduled back in the lab until tomorrow, and that he's heading straight for you.

“Knew I recognized you in the doctor's office.” He says, an easy smile on his face. “I should introduce myself properly. I’m Bucky, what's your name?" 

“I’m Y/N.” You say, offering him your hand to shake. He takes it in his right hand and brings it up to his mouth, placing a kiss directly on your knuckles, before letting it back down. You blush _again,_ and he says, “I asked FRIDAY to check on ya the other night since you seemed a little bit off. Y’alright?”

“Fine, thank you. I was having a rough day, and I guess it showed.” You reply, sheepishly. Your skin is tingling where his lips touched you. You aren't sure if it’s the stubble or the contact that's leaving that feeling, but it's maddening nonetheless.

“Alright. Just wanted to make sure.” He pauses, then takes a look at your laptop over your shoulder. You've got the shape of his flesh arm as a model for whatever new prosthetic you're going to create, and it's pulled up on your screen right now.

“Hey, that's my arm!” He crows. “Kinda creepy seein’ it all disembodied, but damn if it ain't a perfect replica.”

At that, you grin and move aside, gesturing at the screen like Vanna White showing off some letter on Wheel of Fortune. “I redesigned the machines here so they could scan your torso without going haywire because of the hardware you've got going on. Biomed is my specialty.”

“So are you in charge of Lefty here?” Bucky asks, gesturing with his left arm.

“Yup, that's me. I’m heading the redesign team. Obviously, nothing gets done without your approval, though.”

“I've got faith in you, doll.” He looks up at the clock on the wall across the room and swears. “I've got training with Stevie, but I'll be back tomorrow. Nine o’clock, right?”

“Affirmative, Sarge. See you then.” You mock-salute at him and he actually laughs, a sound that bubbles out of him like molten caramel. You can't help but laugh right along with him as he leaves.

———

The arm project is slow going. You hate it, because it feels like everything is resting on you, and you just can't get it together, can't get it right. The material is the main holdup, but you haven't been able to decide what would be best. There are options, but none seem right. None seem _viable_ for this project. The outer covering is done, though. At least, the research and testing are finished. The actual outer piece, which you have yet to make, should match his other arm and feel like skin. Well, as close to skin as one can make in a lab. It should also be waterproof and resistant to bullets, as well as self-repairing. The whole thing sounds pretty ambitious, and you know it, but Tony Stark has the kind of money most people can't even wrap their minds around, and a fuckton of it has been reserved for this project. Not enough to even make a dent in his fortune, of course, but more money than you'll ever see in your lifetime.

Over the past month and a half, since you were promoted to head of the redesign team, Bucky has become a permanent fixture in your lab and in your life, and you'd hate to fail him. He’s always a step behind you when he's free, pointing out things you've missed or suggesting a new research avenue. You tend to forget that he used to be a science nerd back in the day. Most of your time, even when you aren't strictly supposed to be working, is devoted to the arm project, and Bucky almost seems guilty every time he finds out you're holed up in the lab on a Sunday. 

Your free time, rare as it is, is spent with a few colleagues you've grown close to, your laptop, and sometimes even Wanda Maximoff, who you'd met through sheer chance and hit it off with immediately. Even though she can see into your mind and it's a little creepy, you love her anyways, and it's lots of fun to hole up with her on the couch in the middle of the Avengers’ floor and watch all the teen movies and chick flicks she's never seen before. Sometimes Bucky will waltz in and join you two, sitting down next to you and letting you stretch your legs out over his lap. You know that it's unprofessional and it's completely on you, but God does the man bring you comfort. He chuckles at jokes he understands and pokes at your calf to ask about the ones he doesn't. If it's a scary movie, he'll dig his fingers into your skin and whisper stealth tips to the inept protagonists. Most of the time, after the movies end, he follows you to the kitchen and then to your room upstairs, though you don't let him in, because even in your right mind, you still couldn't say no to him if he made a move.

———

You've made a few breakthroughs on the arm project, something Bucky has begged to name “Project Lefty,” much to your chagrin. It's mainly how to improve sensation so that he can feel _more_ with that arm, more than pressure and warmth. You want him to be able to feel texture and the most delicate things like a stray hair between his fingers. He deserves that. He deserves more than that, but the arm is the main focus right now.

You wonder sometimes if part of your drive for this project doesn't have something to do with that little flip your stomach does every time Bucky enters a room you're in, but every time it comes up, you squash the idea. As much as you would love to entertain the thought of Bucky Barnes in your life as more than an almost-patient, more than a… friend, you _know_ it's unethical. Completely, wildly, totally unethical.  

———

“So, Y/N, what did you do before you came here?” Bucky asks, wiggling a bit as you fiddle with the wiring near his shoulder. He’d managed to knock something loose in there, causing him to not be able to move his thumb and index finger, and only after suffering for three days had he come in and asked if you could look at it.

“I was in grad school, finished that in May, then I got a job here in June. The job before this one was in a damn call center. God, I hated that place. Before the call center, I was a massage therapist. That was before I moved to New York, though.” You answer, practically nose-deep in his metal arm. Normally, you’d be overwhelmed by his proximity and his _scent,_ but the delicate machinery you’re working on is far more important than your stupid crush.

“Massage therapist, huh? You still got magic fingers?”

“Probably. I did it for three years, then quit because I was moving up here.” The loose wire is green, and you see a red spot on a circuit board that’s bare, so you use some tweezers to reconnect it.

“There they are! You’re a goddamn miracle worker!” Bucky whoops, making a fist.

“Relax, Buck. I gotta solder it in place and put the plates back on. You’d better come immediately the next time it starts acting funky, because by waiting, you increase the chances of serious damage.”

You take your soldering iron and melt a little bit of solder onto the wire and the circuit board, making sure it’s securely attached. Then, you snap the vibranium piece back into place and take a little screwdriver to reattach it.

“You’re a lifesaver. I think Steve woulda killed me if I hadn’t gotten it fixed before this mission.” Bucky says, his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist as he pulls him behind you towards the door. You let him, because you have a hard time denying him anything. 

A mission. Right. You hated missions, because a mission meant that he would be away from you for a few days, at least, and you missed him more than you cared to admit.

“Hey, when do you get back?” You ask, trying to sound casual, leaning against the wall outside the lab, where he's brought you.

“If everything goes to plan?” He counts on his fingers, which you think is adorable, and comes up with, “In about five days. Why?”

“Well, if you want, I could try to work out some of the kinks in your shoulders when you get back? Probably the day after, that'll be a Friday, and I get out of the lab at about 5, so meet me on my floor at 6 on Friday?”

His smile grows as you talk, and he’s damn near beaming at you when he says, “Friday at 6? I’ll be there. Wouldn't miss it for anything, doll.” Then, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, and he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://simonewrites.tumblr.com), where I post stuff and get thirsty in the tags.


End file.
